A Gift and A Promise
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: Venara wanted to thank him and she thought she knew the right way. Solas receives her gift, but is haunted by its meaning. One scene, two perspectives.
1. The Gift

**A/N:** This was written in response to a tumblr prompt asking for "Venara surprising Solas somehow." This is a parallel story, with the two chapters covering the same scene from both Venara and Solas' perspectives. Thanks for reading!

* * *

 **The Gift**

"I have a gift for you," Venara said.

They stood in the centre of her chambers, mere paces apart, the fire crackling merrily in its hearth. The sun was setting outside, casting a golden light upon them through the open balcony door. Venara placed her gift in his hands, then drew aside, hands clasped before her.

Solas went both very quiet and very still as he held her gift, eyes wide. "Why?" he said quietly.

"Do I need a special occasion for this kind of thing?" Venara replied. "Because there isn't one—unless you consider escaping the claws of the Orlesian court a special occasion."

After the Empress' funeral and Gaspard's coronation—both watched over from the shadows by an eagled-eyed Briala—there was no more need for the Inquisition in Orlais. They had completed their business there, tearing down Corypheus' hold over the aristocracy, forever altering the course of the nation's history in the process. With an alliance solidified with the new Emperor and his sharp Ambassador, the Inquisition had the might of the Orlesian army at their beck and call. And so they left the grandeur of the sweeping palaces, gilded mansions and pristine gardens and returned to Skyhold. The return journey was long, but without the fear and anticipation that had marked the journey to Halamshiral the month before, Venara had found it surprisingly peaceful. When her horse had crossed the threshold into the lower courtyard, appreciation for Skyhold's isolation flushed over her as she inhaled the familiar smell of home.

 _Home? Is that what this place has truly become to me?_

The thought had given her pause as she glanced around—the merchants arguing by their tents, Horsemaster Dennet re-shoeing a Dalish all-bred by the stables, the laughter and music spilling out from the tavern one level above.

She had felt Solas' familiar presence approach as he trotted to her side, pulling up his mare next to hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she had caught the barest hint of a smile on his lips as he watched her gazing at the familiar sights.

"It's good to be back, is it not?" he had said.

"Yes," Venara had replied. "It is."

 _And we have it because of you._

She had never thanked him, not properly, of course. By leading them to Skyhold all those months ago, he had rescued the fledgling Inquisition, saving hundreds of lives in the process.

But it wasn't just that.

Skyhold may have begun as the Inquisition's base of operations, but it had grown into so much more. It was here that she had laughed with friends, cried herself to sleep in anger, watched families and relationships grow and change. It was here where she had returned, mission after mission, to find her solace. After the disaster in the Western Approach, she had found her way back here. After the massacre of her clan and the subsequent devastation of Wycome, she had found her way back here. And now, after the fall of the Lioness of Orlais, she had found her way back here.

For her, all roads began—and ended—at Skyhold.

All roads began—and ended—with Solas.

For whenever she had returned, he had been there, a comforting presence to smooth away all the jagged edges created by her fears and weariness. And most importantly, he had come for her in Wycome, he had been there when she sought her vengeance—pulling her back from the edge, helping her to mourn her family and her clan before leading her home, to this towering, ancient elvhen castle. Solas and Skyhold were so intimately connected, she could not think of one without the other.

Or, considering the trials she had faced, the impeding sense of doom she now lived with every waking moment.

She needed to thank him, somehow, someway. With something that meant as much to him as Skyhold now meant to her.

But what did you get the man who lived so scrupulously, who had no need for material things?

The idea had hit her as she mounted the stairs to the upper courtyard, Solas at her side. It had taken her three weeks to prepare, her anticipation building with every passing day as she researched and crafted and researched once more, delving into hidden mysteries and ancient truths, seeking something she wasn't sure even existed… Until she had what she had envisioned in her hands and quietly passed it to him, that cold spring evening.

"Why?" Solas asked again, his voice barely more than a whisper. His eyes were firmly on her gift resting in his right hand's palm, avoiding her gaze.

Venara took a step towards him. "Because of you," she said. "I wanted to thank you—"

"You do not need to thank me," Solas said. "I am not deserving of it."

" _You are,"_ she said firmly. "And I wanted to give you something to show you want you mean to me." She crossed to him, her hand enveloping his left. _"Dirtha'varen hasem—"_

"'The promise bound,'" Solas said, running a finger over the carved oak pendant. It was a simple thing, part Ancient Elvhen, part Dalish in its design, filled with protective enchantments of Venara's own making. "I remember it, from my journeys long ago. It has been some time since I last saw one."

"A sacred gift in ancient Elvhenan," Venara said. "What would become the Dalish promise ring. I searched the Fade for something of its like, I spoke to spirits who remembered vague images, echoes of ancient ceremonies from across the centuries."

"You went to the Fade," he said. "For me?"

"Yes."

His eyes widened. "I… Thank you."

"It's not simply a vow, Solas," she said. "It's a promise. It's something more, something both of the Fade and of me. Made by my hand, enchanted by my magic, the magic you taught me. I am what I am because of you. I love you, and I want you to know what you mean to me." She was terribly close to him now, she could feel his warm breath on her cheek, the thump of his heart against the hand she now pressed to his chest. Her thumb caught the cord of his wolf jawbone necklace. "I may not be here forever," she continued. She could feel the mark on her hand burning, green magic curling around her palm, fluctuating, as it often did, in time with her emotions. "Halamshiral reminded me of that. I've clung on to life by a thread, by happy accident… And someday—and maybe someday soon—there won't be any more happy accidents."

"You're not going to die, Venara," Solas said.

"I may."

"You're not."

"Since when do you control my fate?" Venara said, a gentle smile on her lips. "Do you, in all your wisdom, have the power to foretell my destiny?"

"Of course not."

"Then let me face my own mortality."

Venara looked up and saw that his eyes were filled with tears.

Tears that were yet to fall.

"I do not need this gesture, vhenan," Solas said, brushing her loose hair away from her face. "I am not—"

"You _are_ deserving of it," Venara said. "After all you have done for me—you are."

He sighed, a soft, trembling sigh, and ran his slender fingers through her tangled hair. "Venara…"

"Yes?"

He smiled. " _Ar lath ma, vhenan."_

He swept her into an embrace, lifting her up slightly so he could kiss her without stooping. Venara stood on tiptoe, arms wrapped around him, clinging to him in a way that felt more desperate than before. The golden light of the setting sun fell upon them, illuminating them against the pale sky beyond the balcony door.

" _Ma serannas,"_ Solas murmured against her lips. "It is a beautiful gift. I will treasure it always."

Even as he kissed her, the tears fell, clinging to his eyelashes and running in lines against his cheek. Behind Venara's back, his hand closed sharply around the pendant, squeezing it as if to break it.


	2. The Promise

**The Promise**

When she had called him to her chambers, he had expected it to be for a multitude of other reasons—a request for council, for scholarship, or for comfort. He had not expected to find her standing there, nervously fidgeting with something in her hands, a serious expression on her face.

"What is wrong?" he had asked, expecting and preparing for the worst. A brutal attack. More loved ones lost. Or more aristocrats seeking to dethrone her, attacking her political credibility in revenge for her actions at the Orlesian court. More death, more destruction, more proof this world was crumbling faster than they could save it.

"Nothing," she replied. "I have a gift for you."

He tilted his head, curious as to what she meant, and—before he could ask—she had planted a carved wooden pendant in his hands.

It was light and supple, the craftmanship exquisite—did someone assist her with it, Blackwall perhaps?—and sweeping, branching imagery reminding him of days long gone, a time long past. Of kings and queens, gods and goddesses, of a pantheon so powerful they answered to none. This was no Dalish pendant he held, it was something evocative of a history forgotten and buried, when items such as these were as common as trifles. But it shimmered with a power that was different than those of the past, a magic so thoroughly linked to the woman standing before him, filled with love and compassion and empathy and the fundamental desire to protect those she loved.

"Why?" he asked, his voice nearly breaking. How could she make such a thing and then give it to him? Did she even know what she had created?

No.

No, she didn't know.

She couldn't know.

Venara was a woman of the present. No matter how far back she reached, she could never truly see Elvhenan. No matter how curious she was, the Fade could not bring her there. The Fade did not reflect an accurate image of the past. It was twisted, changing images to suit the desires of the dreamer—or the desires of the spirits who inhabited the realm. If she went searching for something of the past, what she had created was not the real thing. It was nothing but an echo, free from the corruption that had clung to every _dirtha'varen hasem._

"Why?" he repeated, though it was more a question for himself than her.

She blushed, the stammering words falling out of her. He watched her quietly, her green eyes brightening as she spoke of her desire to find a way to thank him, to create something that truly meant something to him. Of how she went into the Fade and found remembrances of pendants given from one to another in ancient ceremonies, vows made and promises binding two people together.

And created something for him—for _them—_ to show her love, her gratefulness that he was a part of her life.

There was something achingly beautiful about the earnestness in which she spoke, the passion behind her words, even as the conversation turned to her own mortality. She feared that her own death was coming. She wanted to leave him with a way to remember her.

 _Oh, Venara. If only you'd known what you have given me. The purpose of the_ dirtha'varen hasem. _It bound two people together, but not in the way you imagine. It isn't a marriage, it isn't a joining of souls, it is a curse. A binding. One person sworn to do the other's bidding forever. A servant to a master, with an unbreakable chain._

 _A slave chain._

He had to tell her the truth.

One of many truths.

"Venara…"

He could not keep hiding who he was. It pained him to see her, this bright, clever, passionate woman invoke her ancestors' past without understanding the truth of Elvhenan. From the markings on her face to the pendant he now held in his hands, he could not stand to see her be misguided any longer. He had never felt more out of his time, the place of his youth and all the deeds, both heroic and demonic, transformed into something no longer recognizable. And while he hid this fundamental aspect of himself, he could not truly love her.

She needed to know.

She needed to know who he was.

The words fluttered on the tip of his tongue, even as he held her to him, one hand gently brushing through the tangles of her beautiful, loose brown hair.

 _I am not the man you think me to be. I am not the lover who stayed by your side, who protected you all these months, who taught you and guided you on down this path._

 _I am not your friend._

 _I am not your companion._

 _I am the god your people dread most, the god whose name strikes fear into the hearts of those who hear his name._

 _I am Fen'Harel._

But then he could not speak. The words strangled themselves in his throat as he stared at Venara, at this beautiful, scarred woman in his arms. If he told her now, what would they lose? What would she lose? Her companion, her friend, the only person she truly trusted.

She needed Solas more than she needed the truth.

The truth could wait.

He promised.

"It is a beautiful gift," he said softly. "I will treasure it always."

 _Liar, liar, liar._

And so Solas clenched his fist around the cursed-but-not-cursed pendant. As he held Venara and kissed her gently and called himself a fool, he desperately wished the path he walked could be a different one.

 _the end_


End file.
